


The Conservation of a 17th Century Painting

by birdjay



Series: The Met: Art Conservation Studies [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art History, Artist Steve Rogers, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, art porn, art restoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 18:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdjay/pseuds/birdjay
Summary: Well. He does live alone, and it’s not like anyone would find out. He could safely stick his hand down his pants right now and not have to worry about it. He’s jerked off loads of times in his own apartment. It’s...healthy to let stress out this way...right? And the fact that it’s to a doctor of art history isn’t weird. Or at least, not super weird. People have masturbated to weirder things. Steve knows that for sure. And it’s not like Dr. Barnes is rough on the eyes or anything, either. He’s quite possibly the most handsome man Steve’s looked at in months. And, well, there’s the whole art side to things, as well.Steve can’t even remember the last time he’s spoken to someone actually interested in art, who coincidentally is also someone he’d like to bang. Actually, no. He’s never had that happen. Most men he’s dated have absolutely zero interest in listening to him rant on about color theory and the details of Leonardo’s triangular composition style. And the women, well, they either were already married, a lesbian, or he wasn’t interested. So, no. This isn’t that weird.





	The Conservation of a 17th Century Painting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rohkeutta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/gifts).



> for rohkeutta who politely told me on twitter to make this a thing. so here it is, a thing!
> 
> thanks to [lockedlocke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedlocke) who cheerleaded me the whole damn way.  
> thanks to [panacaea_knits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panacea_knits) who betaed for me!

 

 

The thing is, Steve doesn’t mean to jerk off while watching art restoration videos on YouTube. It just sort of...happens. Accidentally.  
  
It happens after an extremely long, extremely frustrating day at work.

He works part-time in the men’s department at a shitty department store in the mall. It’s not the first job he’s taken so he can keep himself afloat while painting on the side. It’s not even the second, or the third, or the fourth. It is, however, the _worst_ one yet. Retail is approximately the seventh circle of hell. He’s had customers spit on him, he’s had people shout at him when he can’t find a shirt in the exact shade of “rose petal pink” they’re looking for, and he’s walked into the changing room to find actual human excrement on top of a pile of unpaid-for clothes. (That last one had almost, _almost_ sent him running out the doors.) But for all that, it pays relatively well, and they only expect him to show up for a shift every other day. That means he gets plenty of time to do what he actually wants to do, which is paint.  
  
Another thing is, Steve doesn’t handle stress very well. He tends to let it build up inside until he turns into a rage colored monster of a man who stomps around, and shouts about the injustices of the world. He knows this. His friends know this. His neighbors know this. Anyone who’s known him longer than about thirty seconds knows this. So, after a particularly long frustration-fueled vent to his best friend, during which he’s marching around his tiny studio apartment, Steve receives three YouTube links rapid-fire in his texts. Another text follows. It says:  
  
                _Man, watch these and shut the hell up._  
  
Steve blinks at the text, and taps the first link. It pulls open the YouTube app, and a video titled “Restoration of a 17th Century Painting.” He hits play, and watches as a nitrile-gloved hand gently moves a q-tip over the top of a filthy painting. Slowly, so slowly, with each small circle of the q-tip, the colors from the painting start to be revealed. The painting goes from a muted, easily forgettable mess to a breathtaking experiment of composition and color.  
  
Steve sits down.  
  
The first video is a minute and twenty-eight seconds long. It’s mostly of one view -- a close-up of the face of an angel getting slowly restored to its original color. It’s fascinating, watching the discolored varnish disintegrate under the ministrations of the gloved hand. But the video ends before showing the rest of the painting, leaving Steve feeling strangely unsatisfied.  
  
The second video is even longer, but has a different feel entirely. A man appears on-screen, holding a small canvas carefully in front of him, hiding his face. He moves across a large warehouse-type space, reaching a table outfitted with several tools. The man sets the canvas down as the camera zooms in. Steve gasps.  
  
Whoever this guy is, he’s gorgeous.  
  
He’s got long brown hair tied back in a bun, and safety goggles over beautiful ice blue eyes. He’s got the kind of scruffy stubble that weakens Steve’s knees, and his smile? Forget it. Steve’s gone already.  
  
The man introduces himself to the camera as Dr. James Barnes. Steve commits the name to memory. Dr. Barnes explains in easily understood terms what he’s about to do to the painting before him, using thick arms to motion toward the artwork on the table. He’s going to strip the aged varnish, and reframe the work. He uses large, long-fingered hands to pry off the wood frame underneath the canvas. The wood is clearly weakened with age, but it pops off with a loud cracking noise as Dr. Barnes gently chisels it away.  
  
Steve barely chokes back a moan.  
  
He pauses the video, and re-examines his life.  
  
What the hell is he doing? It’s eight p.m. on a Wednesday. He’s just had the worst day in retail _ever_ , and now he’s watching art restoration videos that Sam sent him in an attempt to calm him down. Why the hell is he sporting a half-mast hard-on over some doctor of art history?  
  
He takes a breath, and then another.  
  
Well. He _does_ live alone, and it’s not like anyone would find out. He could safely stick his hand down his pants right now and not have to worry about it. He’s jerked off loads of times in his own apartment. It’s...healthy to let stress out this way... _right_ ? And the fact that it’s to a doctor of art history isn’t weird. Or at least, not _super_ weird. People have masturbated to weirder things. Steve knows that for sure. And it’s not like Dr. Barnes is rough on the eyes or anything, either. He’s quite possibly the most handsome man Steve’s looked at in months. And, well, there’s the whole art side to things, as well.  
  
Steve can’t even remember the last time he’s spoken to someone _actually interested_ in art, who coincidentally is also someone he’d like to bang. Actually, no. He’s _never_ had that happen. Most men he’s dated have absolutely zero interest in listening to him rant on about color theory and the details of Leonardo’s triangular composition style. And the women, well, they either were already married, a lesbian, or _he_ wasn’t interested. So, no. This isn’t that weird.  
  
Steve takes another shaky breath, and presses play.  
  
Dr. Barnes finishes prying the old wood off of the canvas, and takes a new piece and quickly fashions it into a new frame. He keeps up a steady murmur of explanation, telling the camera in a low, relaxed voice why he’s doing what he’s doing. Steve, somewhere between Dr. Barnes’s sentence about the dangers of old untreated wood, and next about why stretched canvas weakens over time, slides his hand down the front of his worn sweatpants.  
  
He’s still not all the way hard, but a pass over the soft skin of his dick with the palm of his hand changes things. There’s a rough callus all the way across the top of his palm from the weight bar at the gym, and Steve uses it to his advantage. It’s just the right amount of friction to make things more interesting, and he feels himself grow even stiffer under his hand. Steve’s mouth falls open at the sensation -- his hand is warm and he can’t help but curl his fingers around his cock.  
  
He props his phone up on his chest with the little kickstand on the case. On the screen, Dr. Barnes is now re-stretching the canvas, pulling tightly on the old fabric, and driving the original nails back into the new wood to keep it in place. Dr. Barnes’s voice dips deeper as he works, and a shiver runs its way down Steve’s spine. He gently tugs on his dick once, and tries to focus back on the video. He had started this venture in an attempt to calm himself down. Getting off wasn’t originally planned, but if that’s where the night goes, then that’s where the night goes.  
  
After the canvas is fully attached to the new frame, Dr. Barnes lays it gently on the table. He turns back to the camera, smiles that gorgeous smile, and talks about how he’s going to strip the aged varnish from the surface of the painting. Steve’s fingers tighten around his dick. It’s the smile. That bright white, wide smile that totally changes Dr. Barnes’s face, that has Steve stroking himself once, and then again just because it feels so good. He watches, half-focused on the strong, thick fingers of Dr. Barnes as he points at a spot on the canvas, and gently pushes a soft-tipped brush onto it. He moves the brush in small circles, over and over, and slowly, the original paint colors leach through the darkened varnish.  
  
Steve’s hand is moving of its own accord now, up and down his cock. His fist tightens just slightly as he reaches the head, which sends his mouth open in a silent moan. Dr. Barnes is now talking about why some museums choose not to clean their paintings, and why he’s always been a vocal proponent of it. Steve’s dick twitches in his hand at the sound of his voice. It’s deep, and has just the right amount of gravel to it. HIs hand moves faster, starting a rhythm that promises to bring things to an end quickly. With a gasping breath, Steve twists his wrist the way he likes, and lets the tips of his fingers trail over the head of his cock. Dr. Barnes does something showy with the paintbrush at the same time -- a sort of flick with his fingertips, flips it over the back of his hand before he catches it again and continues rubbing the brush over the varnish. He’s showing off. The knowledge that Dr. Barnes is both intelligent, hot as hell, and cocky? It tips Steve right over the edge. He comes with a surprised grunt, splattering the inside of his pants. He blinks, and leans back against the couch to relish in the afterglow.  
  
A few minutes later, Steve’s sex-dumb brain is making it difficult to think, but he trudges through the mental fog to pull himself back up to full consciousness. Once he’s there, a few things become rapidly apparent.  
  
Number one: the original video ended probably thirty seconds ago, and the next one is already playing. It’s another one about art restoration, but this one stars some crotchety old man with coke-bottle glasses, and an Austrian accent so thick Steve can barely understand him. He presses pause as soon as he untangles his hand from his sweats. Number two: he legitimately just jerked off to a _doctor of art conservation_ . What the fuck is wrong with him? Dr. Barnes did not go through years and years of schooling to be the start of someone’s sick masturbatory fantasies. At least, Steve is pretty sure that didn’t factor into his choice. Number three: there is a giant dark grey stain on the front of his sweats, and it’s starting to stick to both his hair and his skin.  
  
With a loud groan, Steve pulls himself up off the couch and pads to his bathroom. A shower, food, and then maybe another examination of his life is in order. Shower first, though.

 

 

***

  
Steve mostly forgets about The Incident (as he likes to mentally refer to it) after about a week. He gets distracted by the sheer amount of crazy that happens to burst through the sliding glass doors at work. There’s the elderly woman who wants to buy new pants for her totally grown-up son, a young mom with two twin girls in tow trying to find a tie to give their father for his birthday, and then a young man in his very early twenties who spends fifteen minutes trying to give Steve his number. (He throws the wadded-up scribbled-on receipt into the trash as soon as he gets the chance.) Thankfully, it’s the normal kind of crazy, and not actual-shit-in-the-changing-room kind of crazy.  
  
That means when he meets up with Sam for breakfast two weeks later, things get awkward rather quickly.  
  
Of course, the first real thing Sam asks after their food arrives is, “Hey, you ever watch those videos I sent you a while back?” There’s a forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth.  
  
Steve’s mentally retracing his steps, trying to figure out what videos Sam’s talking about when it hits him like a sack of bricks. The Videos. _The video starring Dr. James Barnes._ The art restoration video he’d accidentally-on-purpose jerked off to. Those videos. His mouth goes dry as he nods, and he knows his face (which is never helpful) has probably gone bright red.  
  
Sam chews, then swallows his food before leaning back in his chair and raising an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s...not a normal reaction to that question, Steve.”  
  
Steve shrugs, and quickly shoves a piece of toast into his mouth to avoid having to speak. He can spend the rest of breakfast taking bites right after Sam asks him things, right? They don’t have to have a conversation about this. They really don’t.  
  
Except Sam blinks at him, and points his fork toward Steve’s chest. “Start talking.”  
  
Steve swallows his dry mouthful of toast with the help of a sip of orange juice, and then just lets the words burst out of him all in a rush. Maybe if he talks fast enough, Sam won’t understand him. “Yes, I watched them. They were really calming, and fascinating, and, and -- Dr. Barnes is an expert in his field, really knows what he’s talking about, and he also has _really_ nice nice eyes, and his arms are like…”  
  
“You jerked off to them, didn’t you.” Sam asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s more of a statement that he clearly already knows the validity of. He reaches across the table, grabs at his glass of milk, and takes a sip before looking back at Steve with the sort of expression that’s usually reserved for mothers who know their kids are lying.  
  
“I didn’t mean -- I thought --” Steve says, starting his sentence more than once in an attempt to find an end to it that actually makes sense. His eyes go wide as he realizes there’s not one that will make sense to anyone other than him. Steve blinks, and flashes a silent plea towards Sam. Please don’t make him talk about this. Please, please, _please_ .  
  
“Steve, I was just teasin’ you,” Sam says, eyebrows raised again. He stabs more pancakes onto his fork, then adds, “I don’t care. I sent them to you as a way to calm you down. I guess it worked better than expected.”  
  
Steve nods probably more than is strictly necessary. He scoops up eggs onto his fork, and shovels them into his mouth. More eating, less talking.  
  
“So...Dr. Baines, he’s attractive?” Sam asks, after taking another sip from his glass of milk.  
  
Steve nods again, feeling his blush creep back up onto his cheeks. “Dr. Barnes,” he corrects, and then vaults into more information than Sam probably wanted to know, “He’s gorgeous? Like _actually_ gorgeous. Long dark brown hair, had it back in a bun. Grey eyes. Really nice smile. He’s _built_ , too or at least I think he is? Hard to tell under the dress shirt…” Sam’s turn to nod. He’s got a fixed expression on his face -- it’s the same one people use when Steve talks about art for too long, so he wraps up. “And I wish I could meet him,” Steve says, closing his mouth with a snap.  
  
“Know where he lives?” Sam asks, blinking back into consciousness from wherever he’d gone mentally during Steve’s spiel.  
  
“I’m not _stalking_ him, Sam. I watched one video with him in it.”  
  
“Boy, are you dumb,” Sam says, mostly under his breath. He rolls his eyes, and asks, “Did you even look at any of the other information on the screen before you stuck your hand in your pants?”  
  
Steve shakes his head, eyes wide again. He’s only slightly ashamed that Sam figured it out, but now that he knows, his embarrassment is lessened. What does it matter anymore? Everyone jerks off. And if someone says they don’t, they’re probably lying. He’s just not used to, y’know, actively talking about it with one of his friends.  
  
“The videos are from the Met’s conservation department,” Sam says, squirming in his chair just enough to yank his phone out of his pocket. He taps the screen a few times, then twists his wrist to show Steve the video he’s pulled up. It’s clearly from the same channel, which Steve now sees is _literally_ called The Met: Art Conservation Studies. A group of people line up against a blank white wall, and smile at the camera. Three in from the left is Dr. Barnes. “He’s in the city, Steve.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh _shit_ .  
  
Steve blinks at Sam’s phone, then looks back up at his friend. “He’s here?” He questions, even though he’s clearly looking at the video that’s still playing. The small line up of people are now introducing themselves. “Here. Like...at the actual Met?”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Did you lose your brain on the way here?” He shakes the phone in his hand. “He’s _here_ . You could -- presumably -- go into the museum and ask for him.”  
  
Steve blinks again, and stares at Sam. “ _What_ ?” How on earth would that conversation go? _Hey, I saw your video on YouTube, and accidentally jerked off to you. Wanna go get coffee?_  
  
“I’m ‘bout this close,” Sam says as he holds up two fingers, millimeters away from each other, on his free hand. He reaches across the table to hold them in front of Steve’s face. “To letting you stew in your own misery, Rogers.” He pulls himself back to his seat, and sets his phone down on the tablecloth. He goes back to eating his pancakes, leaving Steve staring at his own plate of breakfast.  
  
“How... _why_ ?” He asks dumbly, after a minute or two of watching his eggs slowly congeal. Did he actually leave his brain at home? What’s wrong with him today? He feels like he can’t string two sentences together.  
  
“Look -- you haven’t shown interest in anything other than your paint brushes in about six months? I show you a random video ‘bout art, and you end up beating your meat to it. Not exactly the reason I sent it to you, but y’know I can’t hold it against you, I guess. So, what I’m tryin’ to say is...you clearly are attracted to this Doctor guy. Go find him. Talk to him!”  
  
“No, no. I got _that_ ,” Steve says, finally peeling his eyes away from his now-cold breakfast. He looks at Sam, pleading a little. “Just...how do I approach him? I’ve never met him. It’s not like my art is good enough to be in the Met. We don’t run in the same circles.”  
  
“Steve. I’m not asking a lot here, man. Go to the museum. See if you spot him. Look at the art, I know you like that shit. Maybe something will happen,” Sam says, long-suffering. He’s finished his pancakes, and set his fork down on his syrup-covered plate. He crosses his arms over his chest, and lets out a sigh. “You aren’t totally helpless, Steve. You can do this.”  
  
Steve nods once, and reaches for his glass again. He takes a giant swig of it, then sets it back down. “Okay,” he says. He can do that. He can just go to the museum one day to walk around. That’s not difficult.

 

 

***

  
Getting to the museum ends up being harder than Steve originally thought, and not only because he is resolutely avoiding it. Work decides to schedule him every day for a solid week, making him more tired and irritable than usual. He complains to Sam over the phone,  so Sam sends him four more links to art restoration videos as soon as they hang up. Only two of them star Dr. Barnes, Steve can’t decide is a relief or not He doesn’t watch right away, promising himself that he has to at least do some chores before getting to see Dr. Barnes’s face again. It’s like a reward, he thinks, a reward for being an actual adult, and taking care of his living space.  
  
He bounces around his apartment for a little while, picking things up and setting them back down, before finally just giving in to the urge. It’s not like he’s doing any actual cleaning anyway. He’s been dusting the same spot on his bookcase for five whole minutes while staring off into space. So, whatever. Those dirty socks can stay balled up on the floor in front of the TV stand for another week. It’s not like he has guests.  
  
Steve sits back down on his couch, loads up the videos and leans back into the cushions. He watches the first video all the way through without touching his dick once. He’s stupidly proud of himself over it, even though he'd spent the whole time really _really_ wanting to. Dr. Barnes spends three minutes and twelve seconds stripping the yellowed varnish on a 17th century painting from Spain. The painting itself is nothing special -- a portrait of some important nobleman -- but the way Dr. Barnes talks about it makes it seem like it’s the second coming of the Mona Lisa. He mentions the extreme detail within the folds of the nobleman’s robe, and how complex the lace on his collar is. Steve watches sleepily, but with his full attention.  
  
He loads up the next video Sam sent him the second the first one’s over. This one’s got Dr. Barnes repairing a small hole in a more recent artwork. The camera zooms in on his long, thick fingers as he delicately places a small patch of canvas over the hole. It’s the intricate detail work that fully grabs Steve by the dick. Dr. Barnes’s hands are so steady, and so gentle on the painting that Steve has to press the flat of his hand against the rapid situation growing in his pants. _No_ , he tells himself, _no, I can’t get away with doing it again_ . He’s already touched himself once to the idea of Dr. Barnes. He doesn’t need to do it again, especially if he has any plans of actually attempting to meet the man. How’s he ever gonna be able to do so with a straight face if he knowingly and willingly jerks off to him?  
  
So, Steve keeps his hand where it is, on the outside of his jeans, right on top of his dick. This is fine. This is normal. After that battle with most of his self-control, Steve turns his attention back to the video on his phone. Dr. Barnes has finished placing the tiny patch onto the canvas, and is now mixing paints on a small palette to match the ones already present in the painting. He’s talking quietly to the camera, mentioning how only specific pigments were common back when the painting was first created, and how he’s using those exact ones to cover the patch. Steve watches with his mouth slightly open as Dr. Barnes replicates the original artist’s brush strokes almost perfectly.  
  
That means Dr. Barnes is a painter.  
  
This knowledge does nothing to help Steve’s pant-situation. He presses his hand against himself one more time, then pauses the video. He takes a deep breath. Okay. _Okay_ . He can deal with this knowledge. Maybe. Probably. He shifts on the couch, and reaches over toward the coffee table where his tablet is. With one finger, Steve taps it awake, and types in his password. Another few taps, and Steve has a Google search open. He types in: _Dr. James Barnes_ , and hits enter.  
  
The first few results have to do with his employment at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but four results down, there’s a link to an article published by him about why museums should be cleaning the art they own and collect. Steve smiles at the title of the work without actually clicking the link -- Dr. Barnes had _meant_ it when he’d mentioned being a vocal proponent of art restoration in that first video he’d watched. The next result down looks to be a brief mention of him in someone else’s academic article. But the sixth result is something called _The Work of Dr. J. B. Barnes_ , which Steve can only assume is the same man. He clicks the link, and waits for the page to load.  
  
An empty black page appears at first, before his tablet kicks into gear and loads a few images. The first few that pop up are black and white paintings of vaguely recognizable things. One is clearly a landscape, with some trees in the dead of winter, with a sort of dreamy, almost sinister fog around them. It’s a haunting image, one that makes Steve want to both stare and look away. The rest of the works load slowly, but once they do, Steve sees they all have the same sort of quality to them. They’re all clearly by someone who has considerable talent, which makes Steve scroll back to the top and click on the link that says ABOUT THE ARTIST.  
  
The page loads much faster, as there’s only one image on it. Dr. Barnes broods up from a professional portrait, ice blue eyes piercing through the screen. He looks much younger, and thinner in the picture, like it’s at least a few years old. His hair is shorter, and pushed back from his face. The rest of the information seems to be a little dated, too, but as Steve doesn’t know much about the man, he can’t be sure. The few paragraphs of biography seem to be hyper focused on his body of work, with only brief mentions about the actual artist.  
  
Steve learns in quick, short sentences that Dr. Barnes’s full name is James Buchanan Barnes, his undergraduate degree is from the Pratt Institute for Fine Arts, and his doctorate is from UCLA. Steve briefly wonders how Dr. Barnes liked California, but doesn’t stop long enough on the thought to really dive into it. The last sentence mentions that Dr. Barnes is currently looking for a position in the art restoration field. Clearly, he’s already found one, and judging from the dates on the videos, he’s been working at the Met for at least a year.  
  
Steve stares at the picture of Dr. Barnes a little longer, before swiping out of the internet browser. What would it be like to meet him? To talk to him in person, to see what he was like outside of the confines of work-related videos? He shakes himself out of his daze, and leans back into the couch cushions. Tomorrow, then. He’ll go to the museum tomorrow. He’s off for the next three days after working six in a row. If he has to show up at the museum for three straight days, then he will. He wants to meet Dr. Barnes.

 

 

***

  
Thing is, Steve forgets things. Occasionally. Sometimes. Okay, so _a lot of the time_ . But he tries, alright? He tries _so_ hard. But between work, and painting, and his friends? Something’s going to fall between the cracks. Sometimes it’s birthdays, other times it’s doctor's appointments.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning to his phone buzzing crazily on his nightstand, he’s not thinking about much else other than, “Oh god, what time is it?” He’s certainly not thinking there’s going to be a professional sounding woman on the other side calling to confirm Steve’s attendance at a gallery showing on Saturday. Steve sits up rapidly, blinking to help his eyes adjust to the sudden light of his bedroom.  
  
“What?” He says into the phone. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to wake up a little more so he can have a coherent conversation. His stubble scratches against his palm. He’s going to have to shave that today before it gets too long and starts the itchy phase.  
  
“We have you listed as an attendee, but haven’t received your RSVP back,” the woman says, with a clear note of patient understanding. “We just wanted to be sure you were coming, and to get the name of your plus one, if you have one…”  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t...what are you talking about? Gallery showing?” Steve asks, voice rough as he flops back down onto his pillow. Today is gonna be one of those days, isn’t it? He stares up at the water-stained ceiling above him, and waits for the woman to answer.  
  
“You submitted art for a gallery showing?” The woman says, a question in the tone of her voice. There’s a rustling of paper in the background before she adds, “Would have been about three months ago?”  
  
Steve blinks, and then sits back up again. “Holy shit,” he says, louder than intended, and directly into the phone’s receiver. “Oh. Damn. _Shit_ \-- I’m sorry I didn’t -- I forgot about that completely!”  
  
The woman laughs, a pleasant tinkling sound. “It’s alright. It happens to the best of us. Did you not receive any of our correspondence about it? Everything would have been in the mail…?”  
  
Steve blinks, and tries to recall what’s been in his mail for the past few weeks. As far as he can remember, it’s only been grocery store circulars, bills, and junk mail. Nothing personal or particularly interesting. He’s got a pile of it on the tiny table in his kitchen still, needing to be thrown away or recycled. “No, no, I don’t think so. What address do you have?”  
  
It turns out they have the building number wrong, but the street correct. So all his mail went to the red-bricked coffee shop one block down. The nice woman on the phone forwards him an email with all the information, and he promises to show up the next night. They hang up after exchanging pleasantries, leaving Steve staring up at his ceiling again.  
  
He got into the showing. His art is going to be hanging in an actual gallery, next to work by actual artists. Important people are going to see it. His heart leaps up into his throat.  
  
Holy shit.  
  
He has nothing to wear.  
  
Steve lifts his head enough to check the time on his clock radio, then sighs. It’s 8 in the morning. Sam’s definitely awake, but Clint has probably only been asleep for two or three hours at most. His friends have wildly varied schedules, but Clint’s is mostly brought on by his job. He’d fallen into competitive gaming, and streaming about six years ago. So far, he hadn’t been able to climb his way out of the hellhole. Steve had gone with Clint to a competition two years back, and almost immediately ended up back in his hotel room due to overwhelming anxiety.  
  
The event had been held in another hotel’s ballroom, rows and rows of computers lined up for specific teams to play on. The room had been packed to the gills with fans, streamers, event staff, and of course, competitors. People were shoving each other to get across the room, and the entire space smelled like unwashed gym socks. Steve, being as big as he is, has a hard time standing in crowds. He gets overwhelmed very quickly, and hates it when he’s surrounded with no way to get out. In the end, he’d tapped Clint on the shoulder and told him he had to go. No hard feelings were had -- Clint’s not that kinda guy. So Steve had booked it out of there, and spent the rest of the three-day trip exploring Chicago.  
  
Steve glances at his clock again, and makes a face at it. He has _just_ today to find something appropriate to wear. Sam would help, but Sam’s tastes aren’t anywhere close to Steve’s. Clint’s, on the other hand, tend to veer toward that of a fifteen year old boy’s, but he does know what’s in style. He just chooses to wear cargo pants and graphic tees. With a pained sigh, Steve picks up his phone again. After a few taps of his finger, Steve starts a new call with the contact labelled Clint 🔫 🏹 🍕 (Clint put his own number into Steve’s phone, hence the emoji use) and waits. And waits. And finally just before the call clicks over to voicemail, someone answers.  
  
“‘Lo?” It’s Clint’s sleeprough, barely-there voice on the other end.  
  
“Hey Clint,” Steve says, with a sigh. “I know it’s early, but I need your help today…” He lets his words drift off in hope of piquing Clint’s interest by being vague.  
  
“W’for?” Clint asks. Steve can hear him scrub a hand over his face, and maybe drink something. There’s a sound of glugging liquid, and then a sigh afterwards.  
  
Steve sighs again, and squints up at the edge between his wall and ceiling. There’s a cobweb hanging there. He’ll have to stand on a chair to clean it, but it can wait for another day. He’s got more pressing issues. “I need a suit. Or something appropriate for a gallery showing,” Steve says after a minute or two of silence. He hopes Clint didn’t fall back asleep.  
  
“Gallery openin’?” Clint parrots. It’s like talking to a canyon and only hearing his own words back. Sooner or later, Steve knows Clint’s brain will click back on, but it’s clearly having a hard time rebooting right now. He huffs a laugh, and nods even though Clint can’t see him.  
  
Steve takes a breath before explaining a little further. “I got -- _my work_ got -- into a showing!”  
  
He hears quite audibly when Clint’s brain rumbles back awake. There’s a sound of something -- several somethings, in fact -- hitting the ground and rolling away, then a squawk as Clint tries to retrieve said things, and then, silence for a split second before Clint shouts, “Holy shit! Congratulations, Steve!”  
  
Steve lets out a much fuller laugh, one that he feels all the way down his spine. _He got into a gallery showing_ . His work is gonna hang in an actual museum where people will be able to see it! It still hasn’t sunk in properly, meaning every few minutes the realization washes over him again. It’s a fresh new wave each time, leaving him feeling out of his depth and a little lost. What’s he supposed to do now? How does he get ready for something like this?  
  
“Thanks, Clint,” he says, with a smile in his voice even if he doesn’t feel confident at this exact moment. His friends will know what to do, or they’ll crowd him enough that he doesn’t have to know what to do.  
  
“‘Kay, so you need clothes?” Clint asks, pausing midway to yawn.  
  
“Yeah, my only suit is from ten-plus years ago, so it ain’t gonna fit no matter how hard I try…” Steve says, a hint of laughter in his voice. Ten years ago, he’d been stick-thin, sickly, and about a hundred pounds soakin’ wet. Ten years ago, he’d been nineteen, and his mother had just died. That was the only reason he even had the suit. He’d needed it for her funeral. So even if it did fit, by some miracle, Steve wasn’t going to taint the excitement of his first gallery opening by wearing his _funeral suit_ to it. Nah, he’d find the money -- somehow -- to buy an off the rack thing, or see if Clint had any other bright ideas.  
  
“Lemme get up. Shower, wake up, all that, and I’ll…” There’s a pause. “Steven, did you call me at _eight in the morning_ ?”  
  
Steve hisses in a breath. “I just found out about it! Like...ten minute ago! It’s tomorrow, Clint. I need clothes _today_ or I’m gonna show up in -- “  
  
“Don’t even finish that sentence. I’ll be there in like...an hour. Two hours, tops.” Another pause, and then Clint bites out, “You owe me coffee and donuts. Like...lots and lots of donuts.”  
  
Steve laughs again, because how can he not? “Yeah, alright. I’ll go get you breakfast. Least I can do.” He’ll go down the block to that coffee shop where all his mail’s been going. The coffee’s the best in the area, and it’s close. They have good donuts too, so there’s that for a consolation prize.  
  
“Damn straight, paint-boy.”

 

 

***

  
In the end, Clint picks out a buttery soft steel grey suit with a white dress shirt underneath. The tie is obnoxiously maroon compared to the rest of the muted tones, but Clint swears it looks good. And since Steve knows next to nothing about fashion, he trusts Clint's word. Probably too much, actually, but he doesn’t really have a lot of time to argue. And the best part is, Clint -- somehow, magic maybe -- manages to talk the price down about two hundred dollars, which means Steve can afford it.  
  
Steve drops Clint back off at his apartment with a greasy take out bag full of burgers and fries. He’s sure his friend will down them all, and then immediately fall back into bed to catch up on the sleep that Steve caused him to miss out on. Steves appreciative of Clint’s efforts in helping him find something to wear. If he hadn’t, he’d have ended up wearing his ratty old paint-covered jeans and a holey t-shirt. Not exactly appropriate for his first real gallery showing.  
  
He takes the suit home, and immediately presses it on an ironing board he has balanced on the back of his couch. He physically doesn’t have enough room in his apartment to stand it on its legs and be able to stand next to it. It wobbles a bit when he pushes down, but otherwise works well enough. He manages, anyway. He hangs the now-immaculate suit on the back of his bedroom door and stares at it. It’s one of the most expensive things he owns, and well, it means something to him. He’s up and coming. Things are happening. Maybe he’ll finally be able to quit that retail job, finally be able to support himself on just his art. Maybe he’ll be able to move out of this postage stamp of an apartment.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Buuuut...what if no one likes his work? What if no one cares? What if none of the right people see it, and he’s forced to stand by it awkwardly all night? What if he gets there and it’s not even his work they put on the wall? What if, what if, what if?  
  
Steve sucks in a shuddery breath and quickly realizes he’s headed into a spiral of panic. He recognizes it for what it is -- it’s not an asthma attack, he grew out of those years ago -- but it _does_ feel similar. His chest sort of squeezes, it hurts to breathe, his vision goes a little wonky, and his brain won’t stop running itself ragged inside his head. He takes another breath, and closes his eyes. Okay. No. He’s not doing this. Not tonight.  
  
He forces himself to methodically put away all his ironing things, then plops down on the couch. He knows what should help, theoretically. He has to distract himself. He has to _calm down_ . Steve pulls out his phone from his pocket, and opens up YouTube. The Recommended For You section is now completely filled with art restoration videos, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He clicks the first one, not bothering to check what channel it comes from.  
  
It’s from the Met’s channel, predictably, but this one doesn’t have Dr. Barnes in it. It’s a woman with softly curled brown hair and a lovely, soft British accent. Her lips are bright red, and when she smiles, it reaches her eyes in a way that takes over her whole face. She introduces herself as Dr. Margaret Carter, and says that she’s on loan -- with a tinkling giggle -- from the British Museum in London.  
  
Steve leans back into the couch cushions, and relaxes out of his panic as Dr. Carter slowly cleans an ancient Roman statue of years of dirt and grime. She talks quietly about the provenance of the statue, how the Met had acquired it, and the issues of legality when it comes to statues of this age. Dr. Carter explains what she’s doing, too, but most of the video is about the piece of art itself. It’s a different take than what Dr. Barnes does, but Steve’s enjoying this too. It’s calmed him down from what certainly would have been a horrible panic attack. The video ends with Dr. Carter waving at the camera, and thanking the viewers for watching.  
  
Steve hurries to click the channel name before a new video plays, wanting the chance to look at what else the Met has to offer. He swipes through the channel’s playlists, before finding one that’s titled Dr. James B. Barnes. There are fifteen videos in the playlist. _Fifteen_ . Fifteen videos of the most handsome man Steve’s ever seen talking about art. His mouth goes dry. He stares at the small thumbnail for the first video -- it’s Dr. Barnes looking up at the camera like it’s an old friend, a bright smile on his face. Steve smiles back at his phone, like an idiot. He taps the video, and lets it play.  
  
The only reason he does not stick his hand down his pants is because his heart still feels a little funny from the almost-panic attack. That’s it. And, you know, _other_ reasons, namely that he’s still slightly embarrassed that he did it in the first place, and that he’s got his gallery showing tomorrow, and that he wants to think straight for tonight and not douse himself in shame. Steve wants to feel good about himself tomorrow, not spend the next twenty-four hours feeling like he wants to hide under his bed.  
  
So no. He does not jerk off to Dr. Barnes talking about paints in the 16th century.  
  
Instead, Steve actually watches the videos. He takes in the information that Dr. Barnes is so willingly and enthusiastically sharing. He learns some about the transition from the styles of the Renaissance, to Mannerism, to the Baroque period. He learns how the popular composition style from those periods changed from triangular to diagonal. He learns about _chiaroscuro_ . He learns about the major differences between the Northern European Renaissance and the Italian Renaissance. Steve spends an hour and a half watching all fifteen videos of Dr. Barnes, then goes back to rewatch his favorites. It’s not stalkery. It’s scholarly.  
  
Okay, and maybe a little stalkery.  
  
Who cares. He’s learning about art from a beautiful man.  
  
Steve forces himself to go to bed around 10:30. He has to get up early tomorrow -- he wants to go for a run, and then call Sam and ask him to be his plus one to the showing. He could have called him today, but it would have been more likely for Sam to beg off. Sam isn’t _fond_ of art in the same way that Steve is. He tolerates it, at best. Truth is, he’ll probably be bored to tears at an event like this, but Steve desperately does not want to go alone. So he’ll call tomorrow morning and literally beg Sam to go with him.  
  
Steve stares up at his bedroom ceiling for what feels like the eight millionth time that day, and studies the way the shadows fall across it. Between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

 

 

***

  
“Sam, I need a favor…”  
  
“That favor better be that you made too many pancakes or somethin’ and need me to eat the rest…”  
  
Steve laughs, and slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. He’s lying flat on his back on his couch, talking to the view of his rather ugly ceiling. It occurs to him that he does this a lot. “No, sorry. It’s um, less fun than that?”  
  
“Ain’t it always. Hit me.”  
  
With a sigh, Steve launches himself into an explanation of the previous day’s events, talking as rapidly as he can to get the information across without interruptions. He knows Sam. He knows if he doesn’t talk fast, Sam will burst in with some unhelpful comment that will eventually turn into sage advice. So he doesn’t give him the chance. Steve wraps it all up with, “So, I need a plus one to this thing, and so, will you go with me?”  
  
There’s a silence, and then the sound of a chair screeching as Sam either pulls it out to sit in, or stands up suddenly.  
  
“You got into a gallery showing?” Sam says, sounding slightly more dubious than Steve would like. He’s good enough to be in a showing! He knows this for absolute certain now, so screw you, Sam Wilson. He’s opening his mouth to say so when Sam surprises him. “Hell yeah, I’ll go to your showing!” Sam says, now sounding appropriately excited. “What time is it? What do I gotta wear?”  
  
“A suit, and it starts at seven? There’ll be wine and cheese and crackers and things. Probably more expensive stuff than cheese and crackers, but y’know what I mean, right?” Steve says into the phone, trying to will down his excitement to more manageable levels. He has a showing tonight! It’s bubbling right under his skin, making him feel like he could run a million miles, or do a thousand and one pushups or something equally outrageously athletic and stupid. “Want me to pick you up?” Steve offers before Sam can say anything else.  
  
“Sure, or I can meet you at your place?”  
  
“That actually works better, let’s do that,” Steve says, with a smile. This way he won’t have to drive Sam across the city -- at night -- to get him home.  
  
“You got it, Mister Artiste,” Sam says, laughing outright. “See you at seven? Unless you wanted to talk ‘bout somethin’ else?”  
  
“Nah, I’ll talk to you when I see you. Got shit to do,” Steve says, flapping his hand in the air. He doesn’t have _much_ he wants to do, but still. He wants the chance to do nothing before he has to run around like a madman later. Maybe he can just continue to lay on the couch for a little, if his brain cooperates.  
  
“Alright, see ya then,” Sam says, and then the call clicks off. Steve drops his phone on his chest and sighs. That went better than expected, all things considered. He thought he’d have to convince Sam or something.  
  
Steve lays on the couch doing nothing for another ten minutes before he picks his phone up again. He tries not to be one of those people who are constantly on their phones -- he _tries_ \-- but keeping up with all the social media accounts, world news, and viral shit is just...addicting. More addicting than he wants to admit, really. He unlocks his phone with a press of his thumb, and mindlessly scrolls through Twitter, tapping tweets to like them as he passes by. Once he starts seeing tweets that seem familiar, he closes the app and takes a breath. In one fell swoop, Steve throws his phone at the opposite end of the couch. There’s no temptation to look at it, if it’s not within his reach. It bounces off the back with a smacking noise, and then slides between the arm and the bottom cushion. Steve leaves it there, and gets up to go make himself a cup of coffee.

 

 

***

  
  
They’ve been sitting inside Steve’s car, parked on a side street two blocks away from the gallery, for about fifteen minutes. The keys are still in the ignition, but Steve’s hands are shaking too much to actually pull them out and store them in his jacket pocket. If he tries, he’s just going to drop them on the floor of the car.  
  
“Steve, it’s alright. Take a breath for me, please?” Sam asks, shifting in the passenger seat. This is why he wanted Sam to come -- Sam can read him like a book. He knows when Steve’s getting too worked up about something, or when he’s about to punch some asshat in the nose. He also knows when Steve’s anxiety is climbing sky high. Not that it’s hard to tell -- it’s pretty much written all over his face.  
  
All the same, Steve does as he’s asked, sucking in a huge amount of air before letting it out slowly over the top of the steering wheel. Once he reaches the end of his lung capacity, he takes another, much smaller breath and lets it out the same way. Slowly, he gets his breathing under control, then turns to look at his best friend. Sam looks worried, but not in the same way that Steve feels.  
  
“I didn’t think I’d be this nervous,” Steve admits, bright blue eyes wide in his face.  
  
Sam shakes his head at him, long-suffering affection evident in his expression. “Boy, you get nervous going to a grocery store you don’t know,” he says, with a laugh. Then he reaches across the center console and rests a warm hand on Steve’s arm. “You’ll be _fine_ . These are your people, aren’t they? Artsy-fartsy types?”  
  
Steve nods, looking at Sam like he’s the answer to all his problems. He takes another shuddering breath, and waits for his anxiety to simmer down to something that could reasonably be called ‘nerves.’ It’s slowly getting there, the longer Sam’s talking to him. He’s right, though, everyone in the building is going to have at least some interest in art. They’ll want to talk to him about it, and that’s a subject he’s bored most of his friends on without even trying. He can do this.  
  
“Okay, so...let’s go meet some of them?” Sam offers, raising his eyebrows high on his forehead. “You always build it up to be something worse than it actually is, right? I wanna see that piece of yours on a wall. There better be a plaque on the wall sayin’ it’s yours. I want a picture of it.”  
  
Steve reaches up, tugs the keys free of the ignition, and stores them in the right pocket of his suit jacket. He smiles at Sam -- a little nervous fledgling smile -- and pushes the car door open. A chill blast of air hits him full on as he pulls himself out of the driver’s seat. It’s late March -- spring is but a thought yet -- so the wind is still fully in the grip of winter. Steve shivers, and tugs his suit jacket around him a little more. He hadn’t brought an actual jacket -- mostly because he didn’t want to have to keep track of it all night.  
  
They make quick work of the short distance between Steve’s car and the gallery, walking at a brisk pace to keep the cold at bay. Steve’s quiet the whole way, mostly thinking of horrible ways the night could go wrong. He can’t help himself --  it’s just how he is. But as soon as they come within sight of the building, all his nerves go right out the window. He’s been waiting for this chance ever since he discovered what an art museum was. This isn’t strictly a museum, just a gallery, but _still_ . This is what thirteen-year-old Steve dreamed of -- between all the sex dreams of Alyssa Milano and Keanu Reeves, anyway. This is it. This is a _big thing._  
  
So he swallows all his nerves down, stomps up to the big glass door and yanks it open. Steve stands to the side to let Sam through, and then follows into the little foyer of the gallery. There’s a second set of doors, but those are held open by stops, leaving the way into the actual building quite free.  
  
Steve moves in, blinking at all the bright lights shining down from the ceiling. The walls of the gallery are painted a creamy white, but not much of them are visible between the large (and small) paintings currently hung on them. He spots his own right away -- it’s hard to miss -- directly across from the entrance. His eyes go wide once he realizes just what that means. That means literally everyone who walks in can see it. No one can miss it.  
  
“Alright, so which one’s yours?” Sam asks, walking up beside Steve to peer around the first room.  
  
Steve swallows, and raises his right hand to point directly in front of them. “Uh. That one,” He says, feeling a faint blush rise across his cheeks.  
  
He’s proud of this work -- it’s one of his favorites he’s ever done, which was why he submitted it for the gallery in the first place. It’s on a huge canvas that barely fit in his apartment, but the subject itself is actually just the view from his living room window. It’s a picture of Brooklyn, but it’s the colors, and the brush techniques that make it something special. The buildings are grey, a muted red, a splash of neon green, and then as your eye carries itself down to follow the lines of the buildings, there’s highlighter pink. Up towards the top of the painting, highlighting an open window, there’s a splotch of bright orange. It’s the messy, black paint dripping and splattering all over, in a surprisingly controlled way, that ties everything together.  
  
Sam whistles, impressed, and immediately moves through the small crowd of people to stand directly in front of Steve’s painting. Steve can’t help but follow, stopping only to grab two glasses of white wine off the tray a server carries past. He offers one to Sam as soon as he’s close enough.  
  
“Alright, how’d you hide this from me?” Sam asks, with a raised eyebrow.  
  
Steve looks at him with a hurt expression. “I didn’t hide anything! You just never came over when I was working on it!” He blinks, and takes a larger gulp than necessary of his wine. It burns a little in the back of his throat. He looks at Sam, and a laugh bubbles out of him. Sam’s joking, because of course he is.  
  
“Relax, Steve,” He says over the rim of his wine glass. He sips, and after he swallows, Sam adds, “It’s good. Really good. Your art, I mean.”  
  
“Thanks,” Steve says, raising his glass to his friend. A warmth settles in Steve’s gut. He did good. He smiles at Sam, pleased, and turns to survey the rest of the crowd. There are people of all sorts here, wearing everything from suits to cocktail dresses, and there’s even one lost-looking teenage girl wearing jeans and a t-shirt standing in the corner. Steve smiles, and shifts slightly in his spot. He glances to the right, and sees a familiar-looking brown-haired head. He freezes.  
  
Dr. Barnes turns casually, and looks around the room, a half-smile plastered on his face. He’s wearing a full black suit, with a black shirt underneath, and what looks like a black silk tie, too. His hair is pulled back into a tiny bun at the base of his skull, and his jaw is covered in dark stubble. Steve feels himself staring, and wills himself to turn away, but he can’t. He just can’t. Dr. Barnes is _beautiful_ in person.  
  
Their eyes meet for a half-second. Steve watches as Dr. Barnes looks him up and down, and then the smile turns genuine as he glances back up at Steve’s face. Steve smiles back, and forces himself to turn back to Sam. He can’t be caught staring. Not now, not tonight. Not by Dr. Barnes, who he wants to… God. He can’t even qualify it. He wants to do _everything_ to and with him.  
  
“Sam,” Steve says softly, to get his attention. His friend turns, and raises his eyebrows. “Dr. Barnes is _here_ .” Steve absolutely 100% does not turn and look again. Instead, he twists and knocks his shoulder against Sam’s. “He’s behind me, to the right,” he directs, then waits for Sam to pull the smoothest move in history so he can look without being blatantly obvious.  
  
Sam disappoints. Instead, he just whips around and scans the room, like he’s looking for a friend who just arrived. Steve stares at him in horror. “What are you _doing_ ?” he hisses, slapping a hand against Sam’s chest.  
  
Sam flings it off of him without even looking. He gestures with his wine glass to the corner of the room where Steve had last seen Dr. Barnes. “He the guy chattin’ to the hot redhead? Wearing all black?” he asks, looking away only to verify with Steve that they’re talking about the same person.  
  
Steve nods, silently willing the floor to just swallow him whole. It doesn’t.  
  
“He _is_ hot,” Sam says, making what he probably assumes is an approving face. He nods a couple of times, too. “You should go talk to him!”  
  
Steve’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head minutely. “No, no, no. He’s talking to that lady, I’m not gonna interrupt…” He shoves his wine glass towards his face and downs the rest of it. When a server walks by, he sets the empty glass on the tray, and takes a full one. He sips at it immediately. Maybe if he’s tipsy, he’ll be able to deal with tonight without embarrassing himself. Or, alternatively, he’ll get so drunk he won’t _remember_ embarrassing himself. Steve’s fine with either.  
  
He turns and looks because Sam’s _still_ facing Dr. Barnes and the red-headed woman. As soon as he looks over, it becomes clear Dr. Barnes isn’t there anymore. A shot of panic runs right down his spine. _Where’d he go?_ Did he leave already? He can’t have left already, Steve hasn’t worked up the courage to go and talk to him! Sam, of course, doesn’t notice any of this. He’s too busy making eyes at the woman Dr. Barnes was talking to. She’s beautiful, too, but in a slightly more lethal way. She’s wearing a black velvet dress that dips down very low between her breasts. The hem hits her right above her knee. Her heels are shiny, also black, and about six inches tall. Her face clearly says she’s better than everyone in the room.  
  
“Well, you do you, Rogers, but Imma go talk to _her…_ ” Sam says, tossing back the rest of his own wine before stalking towards the red-headed lady.  
  
“Uh,” Steve says, feeling lost as Sam’s back gets smaller and smaller as he walks away. He whips himself around to face his painting, and briefly toys with the idea of leaving already. He decides, after waffling some, that it would be rude to leave without at least locating the owners of the gallery. They have to be here, right? He sips at his wine, and takes a step to the left. He can be sociable. Sort of.

 

 

***

  
Steve’s on his second tour around the gallery when a tall strawberry blonde woman approaches him.  A short dark-haired man is following her like a shadow, holding a cocktail glass in his right hand. The woman is wearing a dark blue cocktail gown with a sort of frilly thing near the waist, which makes her look even thinner than she already is. It looks nice on her, Steve decides, just as she holds a hand out to him.  
  
“Hi! You must be Steve?” she says, kind curiosity present in an instantly familiar voice. She smiles widely, showing off perfect, white teeth. “We spoke on the phone yesterday -- I’m Pepper Potts. I’m so glad you could make it!”  
  
“Oh!” Steve says, transferring his (fourth) wine glass to his other hand to shake hers. He shakes twice firmly and then lets go, just like his mother taught him. “Thank you, really. I mean...It’s an honor to be selected…” He feels a blush creep up just slightly. He hates talking about himself.  
  
“You’re welcome,” the man next to Pepper says, raising his glass toward Steve. “Was my favorite piece in the bunch. All the color. It’s great! Got worried when you weren’t answering our letters. Was gonna send a car out to you to see if you were like...dead in your apartment or something, but Peps stopped me. Who doesn’t answer letters from _us_ ?”  
  
Steve blinks at him -- who the hell is this guy? --  and then looks at Pepper for help. She does her pretty tinkling laugh again, and rolls her eyes, like she’s used to this reaction.  
  
“Tony, be nice,” she says, before setting a graceful hand on the man’s shoulder. “Steve, this is Tony Stark. This is his gallery, though he doesn’t -- for some reason -- like people to know that he owns it.”  
  
“Hey -- I’m nice! I’m real nice. His work is -- “  
  
“Don’t mind him, he’ll talk himself out,” Pepper says, twisting her shoulders just enough to cut off Steve’s view of Tony. He hears the man splutter from behind her, and barely chokes back a laugh. It bubbles up, but he forcefully doesn’t let it out. He feels a little, what’s the word, overwhelmed? Shocked? Dazed? _All of the above?_  
  
“My work is in a gallery owned by Tony Stark,” Steve says flatly, blinking a bunch. He brings his wine glass back up and takes a very small sip to cover his _whatever-this-is._ The giggles are slowly starting to form in his chest, and he does his best to force them back again. He will not panic-giggle in front of Tony Stark. He will not. He refuses.  
  
Buuuut...  
  
His work? His work! The painting that he created with his hands and some paint and some canvas and a few brushes...is in a gallery owned by Tony Stark.  
  
_Holy shit._  
  
Pepper waits patiently for Steve to look back at her, before nodding. “Yep! He hand-picked it and everything, but don’t get anxious or anything. He’s just….hmm…” She trails off, and then shrugs with another bright smile. “He’s not anyone to get nervous in front of. Mostly he’ll just talk at you and all you have to do is nod in the right places.”  
  
“O-okay,” Steve says, nodding once before tilting his glass toward his mouth again. The alcohol is barely starting to buzz in his veins, which makes him wonder if they watered down the wine or something. It doesn’t usually take _five_ glasses of wine to knock him on his ass, but maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through him that’s dulling the buzz.  
  
Pepper smiles at him, but she must see something in his face, because she nods once, and then turns back to Tony. She says, “C’mon, we have other people you need to meet.” She tugs Tony away with a hand over his, pauses about three feet away, lifts one long fingered hand and waves. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”  
  
“Nice to meet you too, Ms. Potts,” Steve says, with a gentle smile. She was just as pleasant to talk to in person as she was over the phone. He likes her. Steve’s vision barely catches sight of the shorter man tailing behind her as she walks away. “And you too, Mr. Stark,” he adds, mostly as an afterthought, and mostly under his breath. Oops.

 

 

***

  
Steve spends approximately three minutes staring at the floor where Pepper and Tony had stood, before jolting himself out of his daze. He’s surrounded by strangers sipping at wine, and munching delicately on hors d'oeuvres. He blinks once, twice, then carefully makes his way through the crowd to stand in front of his own work again.  
  
It’s a bit awkward, standing there with no one talking to him, but he makes do by slowly working on his now sixth glass of wine. It’s finally starting to hit, making him sway just a tiny bit on his feet. He’s going to regret drinking this much tomorrow morning, but that’s hours off. He’s still got to get through the rest of this opening.  
  
He’s lost in thought, staring at his own work, when he feels someone come up next to him. Steve’s first thought is that it’s Sam, come back to whine about getting told off by the pretty redhead he’d been after earlier. Steve turns to say something biting, but starts when he sees exactly who it is.  
  
“Hello,” Dr. Barnes says, with a soft almost-smile. If Steve thought Dr. Barnes was handsome from across the room, it’s nothing compared to seeing him in person, right up close. His eyes are so light grey they’re almost clear, and his smile -- even the plastered-on basically-fake one -- makes Steve want to turn into a puddle. Dr. Barnes raises his wine glass towards Steve’s painting, and asks, “Are you the artist?”  
  
Steve stares at him for probably longer than is polite, but once the words finally filter through his dumb brain, he nods vigorously. “Yes, um, yes, it’s my work. I’m, uh, sorry, I’m Steve. Steve Rogers,” he says all at once, with too few vowels. He can feel himself blushing. God, he’s a fucking idiot. He shoves his glass into his left hand, and offers his big right hand to Dr. Barnes.  
  
Dr. Barnes laughs politely, but takes Steve’s hand in his own, and shakes it twice before letting it go. His palm is warm against Steve’s, and Steve wants nothing more than to cling to it, desperately. Instead, he forces his hand to swing back down to his side, like a normal person.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Steve. I’m Dr. James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky, if you like?” Dr. Barnes -- _Bucky_ \-- says, this time with a much more genuine smile. It reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the edges. Steve wants to swallow him whole.  
  
“Bucky, then,” Steve says, liking how the name sounds in his mouth. He could get used to that.  
  
“Would you tell me about your work?” Bucky asks, nodding toward the canvas as he speaks.  
  
Steve smiles, takes a deep breath, and verbally vaults into explaining his process and reasoning behind producing the work that he had. All his passion and enthusiasm pours from him like an unfettered dam, leaving him feeling like he’s said too much. He stops midway, eyes wide as he looks back at Bucky with an embarrassed expression.  
  
“Sorry, I talk too much,” Steve says, screwing his face up to chew on his bottom lip.  
  
Bucky laughs, a brilliantly happy thing, as he shakes his head. “No, you _really_ don’t,” he says, motioning with his free hand to the people surrounding them. “Not one other person here managed to sound as interested as you when I asked them about their work.” He smiles brightly again, then reaches out to touch Steve on the forearm. “I like it. It’s refreshing.”  
  
Steve tries very hard not to melt into his shoes. “Well, um, thanks?” he says, with a wide smile, before burying his nose into his wine glass for another sip.  
  
“Anytime,” Bucky says, with a crooked grin. He nods back toward Steve’s work again. “Have you ever exhibited your work before?”  
  
“No, actually. This...this is the first time,” Steve answers, feeling his blush creep right back up. It’s not embarrassing to have never shown his work before. It’s not. It’s more that he’s talking about it with the subject of his masturbatory fantasies than anything else.  
  
“Wow, really?” Bucky says, grey eyes going wide. “I’m surprised by that. You have some major talent, and...well,” Bucky says, gesturing to Steve as a whole with a wave of his arm.  
  
Steve blinks at him. “What?” The wine must be getting to him more than he’d originally thought -- he’s having a hard time following where Bucky is attempting to lead the conversation. Has he missed something?  
  
Bucky laughs again, this time actually throwing his head backwards as he does it. It bends his body into a beautiful arc that Steve’s suddenly desperate to draw. He leans forward into Steve’s space, and whispers, “Let’s just say that art created by exceptionally attractive people tends to do better than art made by people who are...not.”  
  
“You think I’m attractive?” Steve says, dumbly.  
  
Bucky tilts his head backward a little, looks at him down the length of his nose, and gives Steve just about the cockiest grin he’s ever seen. “Yes,” he says, giving Steve the once over again. Steve resists the urge to fidget. “And I know you think I am. You’ve been staring at me all night…”  
  
“I...uh --” Shit. That meant he’d _definitely_ been caught. He felt his face burn an even brighter red than before.  
  
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you get away with it if…”  
  
“If?”  
  
Bucky flashes that cocky grin again, and leans forward on the balls of his feet to whisper directly into Steve’s ear. “If you follow me...”  
  
Steve bends backward enough to look down at Bucky with a confused expression. Bucky simply smiles back, taps him once on the shoulder, and disappears through the crowd toward the back of the gallery. It takes Steve a second or two or three to realize he’s _literally_ supposed to follow. He jumps into action, slipping through the scores of people to catch a glimpse of Bucky turning a corner. He twists around the edge of a brick wall, and is greeted with the sight of a closed door. Steve stares at it.  
  
Is he supposed to…?  
  
Ah, well, why not, right?  
  
Steve knocks on the door. It opens enough for Bucky to peek his head out, and then grab Steve by the lapel and yank him inside.  
  
Inside the door is a hallway, barely lit by emergency lights. There are closed doors on either side of them, with names painted on the glass windows. Offices, then. Bucky shoves him up against the closed door, bringing his face close enough that Steve can see the faint individual freckles dotted across his nose. Steve wants to kiss them. He wants to kiss Bucky. He drops his gaze to Bucky’s full lips, and then opens his mouth to say something, but Bucky speaks first.  
  
“Can I blow you?”  
  
Steve’s mind short circuits. This is every fantasy he’s had for the past like month, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels cheap, somehow.  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. He backs up a little, hikes up his pants and makes to get on his knees. The sight alone makes Steve go dizzy as all the blood in his body rushes southward. God, if this were...after a date or something. Or...  
  
“Wait!” Steve says, reaching out and grabbing Bucky by the forearms. He hauls him back up to his feet. “I need...I need to tell you something.”  
  
Bucky blinks at him, and looks mildly affronted. “What? What, are you straight or something? Because I promise, it’s just a blow -- ”  
  
“What!? No, no, definitely not that. And I just…” Steve sighs, a forceful thing that feels big in his chest. He scrubs a hand over his face, and then lets it fall back down to his side. Nothing to do but tell him the truth, right? Like that saying or whatever. The truth will set you free. He mentally pauses, and edits himself. Maybe not all of the truth. Not yet, anyway. “I knew who you were when I saw you tonight. I...I’ve seen your videos? The ones about art restoration?”  
  
Bucky nods, but continues to look confused. “And?”  
  
Steve lets out another enormous breath. “And I don’t want it to just be a blow job? I don’t...look -- “ He stops himself, and starts over. “I watched your videos, yeah? And like, I got a, well, I got a crush on you.” He shrugs, and gives Bucky what he hopes is a rueful look.  
  
“You have a crush on me,” Bucky repeats. His face has gone blank, and Steve is a little worried he’s either going to get yelled at or punched. Either would be appropriately awful. He nods in response to the unsaid question in Bucky’s eyes, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. Anything to keep from embarrassing himself. Bucky blinks, and then asks, “Really?”  
  
“Yeah, I mean, you hit all my -- you’re _my type_ ,” Steve says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. This night has gone from good to great to who even knows at this point? He keeps talking even though he really knows he should stop, but he can’t really keep the next words from falling out of his mouth. “And, you’re interested in art. That’s like -- you’re like the Holy Grail or something.”  
  
There’s a strange sound coming from in front of him, a muffled sort of _something_ , so Steve opens his eyes again to see if Bucky’s walked away or is ready to start screaming at him. Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of Bucky holding one large hand over his mouth, hiding what must be a spectacular smile judging from his eyes. It takes Steve a minute to realize that he’s laughing.  
  
Well, alright.  
  
Steve sighs, and pushes off the door. If he’s just going to get laughed at, why bother sticking around?  
  
“No, no, please don’t --” Bucky’s hands grab at Steve's shoulders, and tug him back around. He’s smiling brightly up at Steve now. Steve’s entire stomach drops to somewhere near his ankles. Bucky is _gorgeous_ when he smiles. “No, I wasn’t laughing at you, I’m sorry, please don’t go.”  
  
“Okay…”  
  
“No, I’m…” It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh. He shifts his hold on Steve to his lapels again, and holds them tightly. He lets go after a second, smoothing the fabric down with his palms, before looking up at Steve with another brilliant smile. “You just described me as the Holy Grail.”  
  
Steve nods, and explains, hoping that maybe this isn’t going as badly as he originally thought. Maybe there’s still a chance. “Yeah, because you’re...do you know how rare it is to find someone who’s as attractive as you are, and into art? And on top of all that, actually interested in me?”  
  
“I mean, _yeah_ , actually,” Bucky says, with a laugh. “It isn’t exactly easy.”  
  
And well, that makes sense actually, doesn’t it?  
  
“So…Holy Grail,” Steve says, with another shrug. A smile tugs harder at his lips, the longer he looks at Bucky. Dr. Barnes is right in front of him, looking at him like that. How can he not smile? He watches as Bucky’s eyes dart around his face, then finally focus on his mouth.  
  
“Can I kiss you?” Bucky asks softly, resting one hand on Steve’s chest.  
  
“One condition,” Steve says, laughter coloring the words. He reaches out, and slides a hand onto Bucky’s hip. “We get coffee tomorrow?”  
  
“Hmm…” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at Steve. There’s a hint of mischief playing about his features before he adds, “No.” He takes a breath, and then says, pulling on Steve’s jacket again, “How about dinner, instead?”  
  
“Okay,” Steve says, biting his lip to keep his smile from completely taking over his face. His cheeks hurt with it. “Dinner, then.”  
  
“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding once. He looks over Steve’s face again, like he’s checking for approval, and takes a single step closer. Their chests barely touch, but it’s enough. Bucky reaches up with one hand up and slides it over Steve’s jaw, hooking his thumb just below his ear. His palm is warm against Steve's cheek. Steve tilts his head into the touch. Bucky leans forward, and with one last look at Steve’s eyes, presses his mouth against his.  
  
It is everything.  
  
It is...mostly nothing.  
  
It’s a kiss.  
  
His lips are dry, but soft, and warm. It’s a chaste thing between them, but Steve wants nothing more than to just keep doing this forever. He wants this, he wants more, he wants everything. He pushes forward into the kiss, and lets his mouth open a little. Bucky seizes the chance, and presses his tongue against Steve’s bottom lip, light and wet. Steve lets him in, and suddenly it’s not just a single kiss but something hotter and heavier, and when did he stop breathing properly? And when did Bucky get a fistful of his suit jacket?  
  
Steve pulls away after a moment, and lets his head fall to Bucky’s shoulder, panting.  
  
“Oh,” Bucky says, laughing.  
  
“Oh, yourself,” Steve says, twisting his head enough to press a gentle kiss to Bucky’s neck.  
  
“Don’t start that,” Bucky warns, pushing on Steve’s shoulders so he stands up straight again. Steve looks down at him, amused and pleased. Tonight is good. A good night, all things considered. “You start that, and you’ll start everything else, and you already told me you want to date me...so we’re gonna save that.”  
  
“Okay,” Steve says, wrinkling his nose up in a laugh.  
  
“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding once. He smiles, the sweet smile, not the cocky one, and then digs around in his back pocket before pulling out his phone. He offers it to Steve, after unlocking it. “Can I have your number?”  
  
Steve gives it to him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [dreamwidth](https://birdjay.dreamwidth.org/) or [tumblr](http://drclairefraser.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/humdrumvee).


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